Whispered Like Prayers
by Rude and not Ginger
Summary: After the accidental death of a women Peter tries to come to terms with it, but Sylar plays mind games with Peter, making him keep believing that it was all his fault.
1. Murder Most Foul

_I was going threw some old files and found this. I must have done it ages ago as I don't even remember writing it. Reading threw it though, it seems as though its_ _set sometime after series one, episode 17, .07%_

Whispered Like Prayers

Chapter One: Murder Most Foul

Peter fell to his knees with a chocked sob, tears turning crimson as they mingled with the rapidly healing gash across his face. He rose his shaking, bloody hands from the lifeless form and stared at them, eyes wide and feral with fright.

Pools of blood grew on the wooden floor, ever expanding and coating his jeans. It shone in the light of the lamp before running off into the shadows of the room, but it didn't hide the crime, and could not muffle the cry of anguish which echoed throughout the room.

His hands hit the floor, blood splashing onto the back of his hands, but Peter took no notice as he vomited violently, back hunched. He lost his breath as he continued to vomit and sob, unable to control his shaking body. His dark hair fell across his face, mattered from sweat and blood, the ends getting flecks of sick mixed in.

The stench of death surrounded him, mocking him, assaulting his senses, trapping him in his pain, showing him what he'd done, never letting him escape.

His heart thumped painfully against his ribcage as he had nothing left to throw up, still he gagged, fingers curling in the red liquid causing his nails to scrape against the floor. He wanted something to cling to, something solid and real in his hands, something to take him away from the present.

Her scream echoed tauntingly in his mind, images of her shocked face, her angry eyes jumping to disbelief, then slowly becoming dull and glazed. Her warm skin becoming cold and pale.

He shifted to a crotched position when the tears could fall no more, and his eyes stung, gently rocking himself on his heels. "It was an accident," he mumbled, "an accident." He repeated the mantra, trying unsuccessfully to drill it into his mind, closing his eyes tight, willing away the scene. He reopened them, the first thing he saw was her, face towards him, lips slightly parted. He began to laugh hysterically, the sound made of nerves, sorrow and madness. He didn't no what to do, he was going insane being here, the blood, the smell, the darkness, he had to get away.

Still shaking, Peter forced himself to his feet and stumbled from the room, weak with flooding emotions.

He stepped out into the cold night air, but didn't feel the chilly breeze whipping against him. He ignored his blood soaked clothes, hands and face. Where should he go? Where could he go? He didn't want to hand himself in, he didn't want to go to jail. He couldn't go home, he couldn't taint his home along with his mind. Nathan, Nathan would no what to do. His big brother always knew that to do. Doing his best to keep his mind on getting to his brother and keep them from that lifeless from, Peter stumbled drunkenly down the street, taking in nothing around him. The stench of blood, vomit and death followed him.

*

He banged desperately against the door, the tears were back, and the cold wind hurt his skin like thousands of tiny needles. The lights were off in the house, but Peter continued to bang until the little energy he had left faded, and he fell against the door, attempting to use the handle as a crutch to keep himself standing, but instead he slumped down, and buried his head in his arms. He wailed helplessly, wondering where Nathan was. He banged his head against the door, causing a dull thud and pain in his skull. He didn't notice the light inside flick on, nor the click in the door. He had no chance to steady himself as the door opened, and he fell in the doorway, crumpling into a messy, tear stained heap.

There was a surprised sound, and strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him up. He fell against his brother, face hidden in his shoulder as the older Petrelli reached out to shut the door. Moments later two hands rested on his shoulders, and Nathan pushed him back to arms length to see him. His eyes widened when he saw the state Peter was in, his hair mattered and tangled with blood and vomit, his face pale, checks wet with tears. His jacket was torn in places, and his t-shirt had a trail of blood down the middle. The entire front of his jeans from knee down was dark red with dried in blood. Once white snickers also red. "Jesus, Pete, what happened?"

Peter continued to sob, and Nathan pulled him back to him, holding him in a tight embrace for several minutes.

Once he's calmed down slightly, Nathan walked him to the closest bathroom, told him to strip his shirt, wet a towel, and whipped away the blood from Peter's face and chest where the blood had soaked threw his top, asking again what happened.

"I-it was an accident." Peter whispered pleadingly, trying to get his brother to understand that it wasn't his fault, he didn't mean to do it.

Nathan held him steady, cupping his face and forcing him to look at him. "What was an accident Peter?"

"I didn't mean to, it was an accident." He repeated, voice a soft whimper.

"What was?"

Peter didn't respond, and Nathan's worry only increased as he continued to wash away the blood. "Please, Peter, you have to tell me what happened. It was an accident, I believe you, I promise I won't blame you for what's happened. But I need to know what it is."

Peter shook his head, lips moving wordlessly.

Setting the towel down, Nathan kept a firm grip on his brother. "I need to know."

A few seconds passed by, and Peter looked at his brother. "It was an accident, I didn't mean it, I-I didn't mean to kill her."

Nathan's hands dropped, and he fell back a step in shock at his brothers words. His mind immediately tried to dismiss it, Peter, the sweet little kid who grew up to be a kind hearted nurse, he couldn't have killed a person. But all of the evidence was right in front of him. He stared at his distraught little brother, unable to bring himself to move. It was the wounded sound that escaped Peter's lips which snapped him back into action. He picked back up the damp towel and continued to clean up the mess across Peter's face. "It will be ok Peter," he promised, hoping he didn't sound as shaky and nauseated as he felt. "It was an accident, I know you'd never hurt somebody willingly.

Peter shook his head wildly, dirty hair whipping across his face and forcing Nathan's hands away. "No, its all my fault… I did it… I-I killed someone." Wide, frightened eyes locked with Nathan's. "Please, help me."


	2. Slaughter Of Innocence

Whispered Like Prayers

Chapter Two: Slaughter Of Innocence

Washed and in clean clothes, hair once again clean and falling across his face, Peter sat on the couch, legs tucked under his chin, and arms wrapped around his legs as Nathan paced back and forth before him. "It's best we do nothing, we can't become involved with this. Somebody will find her and contact the police. Don't you do anything, there's no way you could explain how you could have found her. I'll burn you're clothes. There's no murder" – both cringed at the word – "weapon to be found. Hopefully it will be passed of as an accident. There is nothing to link this back to you. You said you didn't touch her, so no finger prints. It was dark, I doubt anyone saw you enter or leave the house. We just – we just need to try and forget about this. We can't let anyone know." Nathan's hands flew to his face, which he rubbed roughly. "God, I'm helping to cover up a murder scene. How did this happen?"

The question was rhetorical, and Peter stared at the floor, the only movement he made was to blink. His body was now clean, but he felt so dirty inside. He felt sick, and he was sure that it'd never go away. He took in nothing of what Nathan said, his mind back at that house, the blood, and empty green eyes, the blue tinged lips, the blonde hair streaked with red.

He had to get out of here. He had to get away. He had to run, and never stop running. With Nathan still mid speech, he threw himself from the couch and sprinted from the room. He didn't notice his brother give chase as he flung open the front door and ran down the driveway. All he could think about was getting away. Maybe if he ran fast enough, the memories couldn't keep up. Maybe if he ran fast enough, they'd fall far behind.

Nathan called for him, but Peter was faster, and was soon swallowed up by the night.

He had no idea how long or how far he'd gone, but Peter found himself in a shadier part of town, attempting to drown out the memories in a drink. It wasn't often Peter drank, he'd never been able to become used to the taste, but currently he craved for it, craved to be able to forget, to lose himself in a mindless state.

He finished his pint, and waved for another, pleased with the tingling sensation in the tips of his fingers, but far from satisfied. He wanted to get so wasted he didn't even know his own name.

The bar door opened, and Peter shivered at the sudden gust of wind, and bent his head over the top of his drink which the bartender had just poured. Doing so, he didn't notice the person sit next to him.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Peter jumped at the sudden voice, spilling a slosh of amber liquid on the table.

He gasped when he was met with ruby red lips, sharp green eyes and pale blonde hair. His heart beat furiously, trying to break threw its bone prison, but it wasn't her, not tall enough, not the right shade of green, face not smooth enough. "Leave me alone." Peter whispered, turning back to his drink. A slim hand rested on his arm and Peter yanked it away. "I said leave me _alone_!" He shouted.

"Hey mate."

Peter looked over to the bartender who'd just spoken. He was part way threw wiping a glass with an old rag, but had stopped to give him a warning look.

No longer in the mood for alcohol, in no mood to be around any sort of life form, Peter stood from the stool and left the bar. The hurried down the side walk, slightly hunched and his hands in his pockets. He had nowhere to go, didn't particularly want to go anywhere. He didn't want to feel anything. He didn't want to remember what he'd done. He slipped into a dark ally and slid to the dirty floor, back against the wall of a building, empty trashcan besides him. He didn't cry this time though. He wanted to, he wanted to shout and scream and rage, but he just sat there, feeling too overwhelmed to do anything.

Time passed, minutes? Hours? He didn't no, had no desirer to look at his watch and find out. However, the sound of movement at the mouth of the ally made him look up. He could make out two shapes in the dim street light, both male. Peter watched them, then they turned into the ally, he was about to stand and leave them to whatever, but then one man was suddenly thrown against the wall with a cry. Peter shot to his feet; he really didn't want to deal with a fight right now. After slight hesitation, Peter stepped forwards, just as the man against the wall screamed in pain. The second man hadn't touched him, but moments later it became all to clear why. Sylar.

Of all the places, and of all the times, why _now_? Not giving it much thought (to many thoughts, unpleasant thoughts, already parading around in his head), Peter rushed forwards and using all of his weight, threw himself into Sylar.

The taller man stumbled back, taken off guard and Peter fell with him. The shaking man against the wall took that time to run, escaping from the ally without a look back, not stopping to help Peter nor calling for help.

An unseen force violently pushed Peter, and he found himself against the wall this time, Sylar's hand gripping his throat, and Peter's mind flashed back to Mohinder's apartment, the situation remarkably similar. "I remember you." The killer smirked, looking over Peter's face.

Peter tried to struggle, but it was no use, he couldn't move a single limb. "Well, if you made me lose that guy I'm sure you'll do instead. You have very interesting powers if I remember correctly." Sylar raised his hand level with Peter's forehead. But then he stopped, and frowned. "Why aren't you fighting me? After all, that's half the fun."

But Peter didn't answer him. Of course he wasn't using his powers, how could he ever again after what he'd done? After killing a woman with them? Not that never using them again would be a problem; it seemed Peter's mortality was coming to a rapid conclusion.

His eyes hardened as he looked into Sylar's, silently telling him to do it, to kill him. It's as much as he deserved after all. An eye for an eye, so to speak. But Sylar didn't look satisfied, apparently he wanted to play fist. He trailed his finger lazily threw the air, close to Peter's cheek, and he felt the pain as the skin tore and the second load of blood tonight, this time all his, run down his face, dripping off of his chin and jaw before it had time to heal. This time he didn't even try to struggle, merely watched Sylar with hard eyes.

Sylar's eyes were cold and uncaring, no warmth in them, but a sick sense of joy. The eyes of a killer. Peter wondered what his own eyes looked like right now. Cold or remorse? Which would be shining threw? He certainly felt remorse, but murder was not a sin that could be forgiven.

Another cut on the other cheek, a would-be parallel to the first if not for Claire's power.

"How do you do it?" A whisper, he hadn't even realised the words had slipped from his lips until Sylar paused. He'd already spoken, and now Peter felt he _had_ to know. "How do you go around killing so many? How does it not kill _you_?"

For a moment, he didn't think he'd answer, but then Sylar shrugged as though he had not a single care in the world. "It's natural. Peter, wasn't it? Everyone's capable of killing. Every _thing_ is. Death is all around us, we've been killing along with the animal's right from the start. Only the strong survive. And each death makes me stronger. You can't avoid it; it's the most natural thing in the world." He finished talking with another cut, calved slowly, deeper than the last, this one crossing with the trail of blood from the first cut on Peter's left cheek. The youngest Petrelli winced, but shut his mouth. He saw no point in arguing about murder to a serial killer who was about to murder _him_. But Sylar's head cocked to the side, looking at him with interest. "Why do you ask?"

Peter averted his gaze, he couldn't move his head, but his eyes travelled to the side.

There was a moment were Sylar's frown stayed in place, then out the corner of his eye, Peter saw the killers eyes light up with mirth. "Oh, please tell me you did?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Peter wished he could go temporarily deaf. The glee in Sylar's voice was to sickening to listen to. "What did you do to them? Was it quick." He leaned in, body close to pressing against Peter's, lips by his ear as he whispered, "or did you drag it out? Hear them scream. Watch the life slowly slip away for their dulling eyes."

He wanted to vomit, the image of those once life filled dark green eyes fading to an ugly dull, empty gaze. The dying gasp that escaped her throat. _He_ did that. He killed her. No, no it wasn't quick, not like a snap of the neck, she'd felt herself die, felt her blood, her _life_, slip away. Her eyes on him, shock, she was in shock, no screams of pain, no cry for help, just mind numbing shock.

The revulsion must have shown on his face, because Peter heard Sylar chuckle. "I was like that, the first time I killed. Once the adrenaline rush passed anyway. But then I wanted that thrill back, and I wanted more power. If they couldn't defend themselves, then they didn't deserve them."

He was still close to Peter, his breath ghosting across his ear, and Peter squeezed his closed eyes tighter, as though it would cause Sylar to back off. He didn't have to look though to know he was still right there though, he could just picture his mouth pulled into a wicked smirk.

"What's the matter Peter? Afraid of what you did? Poor little Petey going to cry?"

He could hear the taunting in his voice, and he hated it. Hated the man in front of him. Hated all of the things Sylar had done. Hated having these powers. But right now, the thing he hated the most was himself.

Before he new what was happening, Sylar was thrust off of his feet, thrown back with a burst of telekinesis, crashing into the opposite wall with a cry of surprise and pain. He fell to his knees, momentarily dazed from the impact of his head hitting the cold stone wall with such force.

Peter froze in hesitation, he'd lost control of his powers due to emotions, _again_. He slowly opened his eyes, and looked over at the other man. Sylar seemed to be getting back his focus, in a few seconds he'd be up, and pissed.

Licking his pissed in nervousness, Peter glanced to the mouth of the ally, it was only about ten feet away, but he new by then Sylar would be up. Try and make a run for it, or use his powers? _The powers that had killed someone. _Giving it no more though, Peter ran. He was a step away from the street when he went flying to the side, forcefully pushed against the wall, but he wasn't held there, and stumbled, putting a hand to the wall to stop himself from falling.

Sylar stalked forwards, a dark scowl on his face and eyes alight with anger. Peter braced himself for an attack, but it never came. Instead, Sylar merely watched him, the angry leaving his expression, and replaced by something Peter couldn't put his finger on. "You didn't answer my question. Did your mother teach you no manners?"

"Did yours never teach you murder is wrong?!" Peter snapped back, not sure why he was baiting him, but unable to keep silent. All of the emotions were a whirlwind inside of him, draining all of his energy, and he had to let it out _somehow_, even if this wasn't the smartest idea he'd ever had.

"She did." Sylar agreed. "…Didn't do her any good though."

Peter gaped, all plans of escaping forgotten in that moment. "You killed your own _mother_?"

"Self defence." Sylar stated, as though they were chatting about the bad traffic in New York rather than the current turn in conversation.

"But she's your mother!"

Peter shook his head. Here he was, in a dark ally after killing a women, having a chat with a serial killer - who'd temporarily killed him - about murdering said serial killers mother. If the situation wasn't so sickening, he'd be laughing his ass off at the total nonsense of it all.

"You're avoiding the question, Peter."

Peter shook his head, ignoring the section of hair falling in front of one eye. "If you're going to kill me, get on with it, if you want to stop for a chat, I don't have time to stand around here listening to you."

"Funny," Sylar smirked, "you seem to have plenty of time to spend wallowing in the dark, hid away in an ally. I want to know what you did."

"I hate you." Peter snarled, pushing Sylar further away from him.

"No, you just hate that I'm reminding you of yourself." Peter froze, and Sylar continued, stepping back closer to him, right into his personal space, voice low. "You killed a person. The reason is irrelevant. St Peter ended a life. You could have stopped, you could have backed away, but that instinct, that incredible thrill of power and dominance, you felt it, and you craved it."

"Shut up," Peter whispered, dark eyes wide and panicked. Scared of Sylar's words, because they were so true. For a moment, just a spilt second, he had enjoyed it, watched with no guilt as she had breathed her last breath. Before the panic, shame and horror of his actions had set in, for a time to minuscule to record, he had felt pride.

"You did it," His voice was laced with dark humour, "and I bet you'd do it again."

_No_, he could _never_ do it again, it was too much. To gut wrenching, to _evil_.

"You did it once," Sylar's voice interrupted his frantic thoughts. "So you can do it again. You felt it, the frill, I know you did, and soon you'll want it again. You know how I know?"

Peter dared to look at him, locking gazes with eyes that weren't only dark in colour, but in soul.

"Because now," He whispered as though telling a secret, leaning in so close that their torso's were touching. "You're _just like me_."


End file.
